


Miscommunication

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Comment Fic, Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for lazy_daze's Fix-It Comment Fic meme. Previously untitled until I posted it here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miscommunication

The fifth time they finish a hunt and Dean leaves his wet towels--plural--in a damp, messy pile on Sam's bed is the moment Sam's finally had enough.

He comes out of the bathroom gripping his own towel--singular--around his hips, hair wet and dripping, teeth chattering and skin half gooseflesh (because of course Dean used all the hot water) as he dumps his bag on the bed and starts rummaging for clothes. Then he sees Dean's towels soaking into his bedsheets, ensuring he'll spend another night cold and miserable on wet sheets, and he just ... snaps.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Dean!" Sam yells. He grabs the towels in his free hand and turns to pelt them squarely at Dean's face. "Keep your fucking mess on your side of the room, okay?"

Dean looks up from whatever porn he's pretending to watch (still going through the motions, oh yes) and raises one eyebrow, flicking the towels off his lap and onto the floor.

"What's your problem?"

"My problem," Sam enunciates precisely, "is that you seem to think the entire room is yours and I have to exist around you. You leave your dirty clothes all over the place, your empty beer cans stink to--" he stops short of _high heaven_ "--they fucking reek, okay, and you leave your wet fucking towels on my bed." He turns away to pull on a t-shirt and jeans, rubbing roughly over his hair with his single all-but-useless towel. "In case you'd forgotten," he says, muffled by terry cloth, "there are actually two of us here."

"God only knows why," Dean mutters, then snorts humourlessly. "Oh wait, God doesn't fucking care."

Sam lets his towel fall and turns around to face his brother. The familiar low burn of anger starts eating away at his insides, acid rising up to choke him when he speaks.

"God doesn't care, so why should you, is that it?" He smiles, hard-edged and cold. "Or is it more personal than that?"

"The fuck do you mean?" Dean puts the laptop aside and scoots to the edge of the bed, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "You got something to say, Sam, spit it out. I'm not in the mood for drama."

"Come on, Dean." Sam gestures around the room, Dean's meagre belongings strewn everywhere while Sam's duffle sits neatly on the bed, fully packed, lifted from its position in the far corner. "It's pretty obvious what you're doing here. You're just too passive-aggressive to come out and say it."

Dean's eyes harden to chips of green ice, spearing deep into him. The feeling mixes with his anger, stoking him up further, a volatile mix.

"Why don't you make it real clear for both of us, then," Dean says, almost sneering. "Wouldn't want to get our signals crossed, huh?"

Sam flinches at the unsubtle reminder of their actions leading up to Lilith's death. He sees a flash of satisfaction on Dean's face, and that prompts the next words out of his mouth.

"You want me gone, Dean, all you gotta do is say so."

"I--what?" Dean stares at him. "What the hell, Sam?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair, shrugging. His anger is fading now, turning into a kind of sick misery that he's become all too familiar with over the past few months.

"It's obvious," he says again, only quieter this time. "You don't trust me, and you sure as hell don't want me around. I'm not blind, Dean. Or deaf, come to that."

"I got no fucking idea what you're saying," Dean says bluntly. He throws a hand out, waving it around like it's an argument all by itself. "Is this about the demon blood thing? Because I know that's not your fault, Sam--"

"Don't," Sam cuts in. "Don't lie to me. I know exactly what you think of me, Dean. I've been ignoring it up until now because we had more important things to worry about, but now ..." He shrugs. "I can't do this anymore."

"Do what?!" Dean yells. He stands up and gets in Sam's space, shouting into his face. "We're not doing anything but the job, Sam! And correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the Apocalypse trumps whatever else you got in your day planner right now." He tilts his head. "Unless that's it. You wanna cut loose, Sam? Gonna walk off into the sunset again and leave everything behind you?"

The mocking edge to his voice cuts right into Sam. Dean and Dad are the only people who've ever been able to do that to him, and Dean was always worse because somehow Sam never expected it. Just like now; he takes a step back before he even realises, even as his brain is spewing bullets disguised as words in retaliation.

"Better than hanging around here like your fucking houseboy, with you thinking of me like something to hunt."

"Jesus." Dean steps back and gives him this wide-eyed look, like he's been gutshot. "Sam, I never ... never thought that."

Sam feels his lip curl, and he laughs in Dean's face.

"Yeah, I remember real well what you thought of me a few months ago, Dean. Save your bullshit for someone who'll actually buy it."

"Wait, what? Sam, come on." Dean grabs his shoulder and shakes him, still angry but seeming curious now. "What does that mean?"

"The voicemail, Dean! The fucking voicemail you left when I was on my way to kill Lilith!" Sam steps back, breaking Dean's hold. "You were pretty clear then. 'Bloodsucking freak', 'monster', 'I'm done trying to save you' ... ringing any bells?"

Dean's shaking his head, all the colour leaving his face, saying, "No, no, no, that's not--" He grabs Sam's arm this time and grips it tight, making Sam meet his eyes.

"That's not what I said," he says urgently. "Sam, that's not the message I left for you. I swear, man, that is not what I said."

Sam looks at him, sees the way Dean is staring openly, almost willing Sam to believe him. There are no barriers for once, no wall between Dean and the world; just his brother, being honest with him.

"What did you say?" he asks.

Dean shrugs, cutting his eyes away for a second before bringing them back to meet Sam's.

"You're my brother, dude," he says simply. "Whatever else happens, it's still just you and me."

"Is it?"

Dean flinches at the deliberate reminder of their time in heaven, when this latest rift between them started. Sam wonders if they can come back from it this time. So much has happened, so many accusations and mixed messages and motives taken out of context; one day it might be too much.

Then Dean's shoulders come up out of their slump and he nods, just once, firm and sure.

"Yeah, Sammy," he says in a clear voice. "It is."

That's like another sucker punch right there: Dean hasn't called him Sammy in months, and to hear it now is like having a prayer answered. Sam feels a tension in him relax that he didn't even realise was there, leaving him looser and slightly lightheaded. He nods back and sees Dean's relief naked on his face, for once not bothering with the big-brother mask.

Sam considers for a second, then decides there's never going to be a better time for this. He goes back to his duffle and pulls out a pair of balled-up socks, tossing them at Dean.

"I think those are yours," he says, sitting down on his bed away from the wet-towel spot.

Dean looks from the socks to Sam and back again in confusion. He shrugs and squeezes them reflexively, then stops and frowns, squeezing again. Sam holds his breath and waits, fingers crossed, hoping he hasn't made a mistake.

Dean pulls the socks apart and barely catches the amulet as it drops from its secure place in the middle. He lets the leather cord dangle from his fingers, gazing at the familiar golden (probably brass) icon for the longest time.

"Say something," Sam says at last, too nervous to wait any longer.

"How?" Dean collects the whole necklace into his hand and clenches his fist around it, not looking at him.

"I took it out of the trash before we left." Sam shrugs. "I thought you might want it again someday."

Dean cocks an eyebrow at him. "Someday?"

"Well." Sam shrugs again, his stomach doing flip-flops. "It might be worthless for finding God, but that's not why you had it in the first place. Right?"

He waits for Dean's answer, heart beating so loud he can barely hear anything else.

Dean slowly unclenches his hand and slips the amulet over his head, letting it rest in its accustomed place on his chest. He looks at Sam the entire time, his gaze warmer than it's been in years.

"Right."

END


End file.
